


The Cantankerous Soul Herder and the One Who Makes Sheep.

by Miss_Gems



Category: Diablo III, Diablo IV
Genre: But Similar points and characters, Commander of the Dead and the Angel of Death, Gen, Not exactly part of Solid State, One is Inarius, Post ROS, The other is Rathma and his adventures in all things dead and dying, There are two sides to my creative record:, angel of death - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28529034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Gems/pseuds/Miss_Gems
Summary: Sanctuary was forever changed when Malthael dipped his toes into Death. Rathma hates that so very much - too bad for him it's his problem now.
Relationships: Rathma and Malthael
Comments: 22
Kudos: 11





	1. Death and the Dead

“I swear by everything my descendents built-” 

“Oh be reasonable-”

“-In the event that I ever catch you meddling in my affairs again,” The words were bit out with a snarl and snap of teeth, “I _will_ be dismembering you.” 

Angel and Nephalem stared one another down for an oh-so-very-long moment. Skeletal blue wings flicked distastefully. A solid-black cloak fluttered with all the indignation a garment could muster. Between the two, one wayward soul peered wearily back and forth.

“Leave.” Rathma hissed. “Do not return.” 

“Such venom from one who preaches the importance of ‘emotional stability’.” Malthael grumbled snootily, but he prepared himself to take his leave. “...I suppose you might not help it, given the contents of your infernal blood.” 

And the angel was gone, leaving something like disappointment in his wake. Rathma growled after him, all bared teeth and threat, before settling back into his usual disinterest. After a moment, he turned to the specter that had started this whole mess. 

“Let’s be away with you too, then…” He uttered. Even as he prepared the necessary spellwork to send the spirit on its way, Rathma could feel it staring at him. Nothing new, most dead souls tended to pay more attention to those who could sense and interact with them. Finding someone who was not blind to their presence was something of a novelty, particularly to those that had wandered for a time.

He paid it’s stares no mind.

With a flick of his blade, the now-complete ritual circle lit up with power. Satisfied, Rathma glanced up at his charge - and a thin frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. Though its ‘face’ was little more than a blur of energy with the barest hint of eyes and a mouth, he could easily make out the contemplative look the spirit gave him. 

“If there’s something you wish to impart,” The Nephalem grumbled as he worked to maintain his spell’s stability “Do so now, for you will be removed from this plane of existence momentarily.” 

A shiver seemed to wrack the soul, and it wavered a moment. Then, it floated forward and reached out with one ethereal hand - reached for him. Obligingly, Rathma stood and accepted its hand on his own. 

_You and the angel are linked. Together. Not one, not the same. But together… Similar._

Rathma’s frown grew into a grimace. “The angel does not belong here, on Sanctuary. Neither it, nor the souls it houses, are _his_ domain.”

No angel had any business dealing with the home and souls of mortals. On this, his mind was made. 

_You deny it._ The spirit sighed, and squeezed his gloved hand - a strange sensation really. _But the angel has altered himself, and Sanctuary with him. To ignore what he represents… Folly. Truly a folly._

“The angel nearly tore our home asunder with his narrow-minded actions.” Rathma hissed. “To allow him onto our world once more, to interact with our souls once more... _that_ would be folly.” 

_Perhaps..._ There was more contemplation in the spirit’s face and tone as it peered at him. _And perhaps he would do better,_ be _better, were he shown. That is what_ you _do yes? To be Rathma is to show others the Balance, to teach, to learn._

“That was Kalan’s job.” Rathma sniffed petulantly. Just who had this spirit been, that it knew so much of him? “Regardless, Malthael is too stiff-brained to listen to my teachings.”

He thought the soul might be chuckling at him. It seemed amused, in a soft, non-judging way. 

_The Angel of Death was once Wisdom. A craver and collector of knowledge. A true scholar. I know his kind: he would learn from you…_ The spirit let go of him then, drifting away. Rathma had to stop himself from reaching out again, and demanding this soul’s identity. Demanding answers to its ponderous words.

If it did not wish to say anymore, he could not force it. 

“Very well. Away with you then.” The Commander of the Dead gestured, mumbled a few words, and his spell flashed bright with magic. A pillar of light shot into the sky, lighting the gateway to the great beyond. Silently, the wayward soul floated past him. Silently, it vanished into nothingness. 

Rathma was alone then. 

Dutifully, the Nephalem began cleaning up his spellwork. It was but one of many he would conduct this day, in order to bring a semblance of Balance back to his Sanctuary. 

Not-so-dutifully, he shoved the specter’s words from his mind. What did a fading mind know of angels and death? Besides, he had work to do. So very much of it...


	2. Red Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malthael gets caught, but not for the reason Imperius thinks.

Twenty-seven mortal hours had gone by, and no one had bothered to say anything to Malthael. He was feeling rather good about his chances that no one in the Heavens had noticed his absence. 

Near as he could tell, the only ones who were any wiser would be the dead soul, and the irritable old Nephalem he’d encountered. He was reasonably sure neither one had the means to tattle on him. 

Rathma likely wanted to, but what could he do?

Telling the other Nephalem would likely cause a chain-reaction of rifts and fighting between angel and mortal once more. Imperius certainly wouldn’t be pleased to find someone demanding retribution on an angel - even if that angel was a (technical) war-criminal. The Archangel of Valor was so delightfully protective like that. 

Given what he knew about the Nephalem, he was rather certain that Rathma would rather do anything other than speaking with Tyrael. There was a feud born of blood there, for certain. 

And so Malthael was unconcerned about any consequences for his foray onto Sanctuary. 

The former-Archangel contentedly tucked back into his reading. Part of his excursion to the mortal world had included the borrowing of several thick tomes from his brother. Not that Tyrael had given him his permission, but the spirit that had called him down in the first place had been very insistent that he have them.   
  
Who knew that there were such dedicated writers and researchers hidden among Sanctuary’s wretches? Whoever Deckard Cain had been, he was very good at compiling - even if his handwriting was barely legible. Thankfully, someone else had been annotating the old tome prior to Malthael. 

This second writer had a keen mind, and an attention to odd detail that was distinctly helpful in highlighting irregularities and oddities. It seemed they’d been in a hurry though, and never finished their annotations. Disappointing. 

Another tome - a bestiary really - was penned by a witch, which apparently made her a spellcaster of evils and sins. Fascinating, if disgusting. Her writings were crisp and clean, and wonderfully academic. 

It was...intriguing, that she’d managed to ferret him out where no one else had. 

Tyrael’s own book had him the most surprised. Who knew the bullheaded Archangel of Justice, Imperius’s right-hand sword, was so well-written? They might have gotten along better if the other angel had shown such promise to Malthael as anything other than an enthusiastic sword. 

Alas. He had the book now, and found the contents within...well, they were interesting. The angel certainly couldn’t empathize with the parts on the mortal realm. It gave him context for the witch who’d written her bestiary, so that was nice. And shed some light on the annotator from Cain’s tome. 

What a marvelous set he’d come to obtain. There was an almost unintentional train of collaboration between the three. Reading them together was obviously the correct way to go through them.

It was like having all the pieces to a puzzle. A frustrating, slimy puzzle called Sanctuary. 

Malthael was slightly miffed that Tyrael hadn’t brought these to him sooner. He supposed there hadn’t been the time or trust between them - but he would’ve enjoyed these books. Very, very much. Was enjoying them, now that he had them. 

Enjoying them so much, that he failed to note the new presence in his study, up until Imperius swiped the Book of Adria right out of his hands. 

Reserved as he was, Malthael did not shout. He did rise up from his seat, and glower pointedly at the other angel. Imperius glared back.

There were an awful many of Imperius’s glares, and Malthael had learned, over the time, to interpret just about all of them. It was a game he and Auriel used to play - what emotion is Imperius actually expressing with his glare? Many were reserved for different types of anger, though they changed based on who or what he was angry with. There was a half-dozen that the fiery angel only ever used on Tyrael. Some were almost affectionate, some were excited, some were even sad. 

It was rare that Imperius actually glared at Malthael himself. Usually the tall angel was safely behind that glare, or perhaps to the side, observing whatever unfortunate being had incurred Imperius’s attention at the moment. Of late, he’d started noticing that Valor was favoring him with nothing but angry and irritated gazes. This was not something Malthael enjoyed, but dealt with nonetheless. 

This, however, was something different than wrath or rage. It made his wings itch. 

This was a glare that screamed disappointment. 

Angels did not breathe, and thus, did not hold their breath, nor let it out again. Nonetheless, Malthael experienced a very similar sensation to such when Imperius finally looked away from him. 

“Tyrael is furious enough with you,” The angel rumbled lowly as he skimmed the pages. “Without coming to find you’ve stolen from him.” 

That the Archangel of Valor knew these books at a glance, at where they’d come from no less, was honestly a surprise to Malthael. His brother was...not well read. 

“You are lucky this is not why I’m here.” Imperius thumped the book back down, and one gauntleted finger tapped irritably at its leather cover “Do you want to tell me where it is you went? Where you went, that you were not supposed to? Or should I tell you, O Angel of Wisdom?” 

Oh dear. Malthael had miscalculated something, somewhere. 

Silently, he tipped his head, taking in Imperius’s body-language (tense, as ever), wing-motions (slower than usual...tired?), and back to the flat, disappointed stare that the angel had not yet dropped. Carefully, he considered his words. 

“...I was called.” He spoke softly, guiltlessly. “I could not ignore it.” The Sound had lessened a great deal after his actions upon Sanctuary. Likely, there were simply less souls wandering and wailing aimlessly. But even one particularly loud call was enough to drive him into action, if it would see him some relief from the Sound. 

Perhaps, at some point, he should tell someone about that...but Malthael could not for the life of him imagine who. 

“Oh, and I suppose you’re the dog that answers every whistle now?” Imperius crossed his arms harshly, and finally looked away to stare out a window. “You are bound to Heaven for a reason Malthael, and I cannot justify what freedom you have here if you misuse it like this.” 

...Justify? Malthael was under the impression that the Council had determined this the best course of action regarding him. If they were in disagreement over what to do with him… If someone had called to re-examine the decision…

Oh, he had miscalculated. But what choice had there been?

He must’ve given some outward show of surprise, for Imperius’s attention was sharply rooted upon him once more. A deep, soul-felt sigh left Valor, and his posture relaxed some. 

“Consider yourself fortunate that no one can prove you were gone, and that Tyrael has been unable to confirm whether they saw you or not.” Imperius growled. “And consider yourself fortunate that I am feeling lenient.” He thumped the desk with a hand.

Malthael’s head jerked from where he’d been steadily looking downward, wings frazzling. “They?” 

Imperius regarded him with a new glare. Uncertainty. Suspicion.

His golden wings flicked dismissively. “That group of his, the ones that stole into the Heavens the first time. They may have seen you, or perhaps it was their over-active mortal imaginations.” 

The Horadrim. Malthael stiffened, mind racing over his memories. That particular group of humans was well-known to him. He knew their souls, the feel of their minds and emotions. 

Malthael had not encountered the Horadrim. 

The other angel was either oblivious to Malthael’s rapid-thinking, or did not care. He straightened, and turned as if to go. 

“Do not leave the Heavens Malthael. My protection only goes so far, and you have strayed very close to the edges of late.” Imperius rumbled as he made his leave, only pausing at the door to call over his shoulder; “And should you be ‘called’ again, I expect that you will come to me immediately.”

And the Archangel of Valor was gone. Protective as ever, even when perhaps he shouldn’t have been. 

Slowly, Malthael sank back into his seat, and stared at nothing for a long moment. 

There had not been a miscalculation. He simply hadn’t had all the variables to work with.

At no point had he come anywhere close to a Horadrim, this he knew. Yet they believed they’d seen him. It was a coincidence that Imperius had accused him of sneaking out, and that Malthael actually had done such. Looking back down at his desk, the angel knew that this was a moot point. He had the books. He had been to Sanctuary. He had not been caught then, but he was caught now. 

Were it not for some...external force, no one would’ve known. He’d had the right of it concerning Rathma and the ghost - neither had revealed him. It had been the foolish Horadrim, thinking they’d seen Malthael.

And now he was left to wonder; what could they have possibly seen that they’d mistake for Him?


	3. Something Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma had been accurately interpreting the balance for the better part of Sanctuary's life now. Except now he couldn't. Odd.

Perched upon the sheer face of a cliff, overlooking the shadowed forests and moorland of Khanduras, Rathma frowned to himself. 

It was quiet, save for the gentle whistling of the winds. They tugged at his cloak, and the garment stubbornly tugged itself back to him, clinging fitfully to his frame. As ever, his cloak could easily pick up on his inner turmoil and nervousness. 

There was something off. Rathma had felt it for a long time now, but had attributed it to the recent catastrophes with the Prime Evil and Malthael.

Sanctuary was out of Balance. 

Hardly surprising, after everything. But he’d hoped that he’d start to see a shift back into alignment. The old Nephalem had certainly been working towards that goal, banishing demons and sending souls on their way wherever he went. It was not grand-scale work, but realigning the Balance rarely was. He’d been at it for...well, long enough that Rathma had anticipated some shift by now.

But no, the feeling persisted. 

It did not help things that he was having trouble telling which way the scales were tipping. Any other time there’d been a disturbance, Rathma had known exactly which side was gaining a foothold, and easily ferreted out the proper course of action to correct it. 

The sun was rising steadily behind him, lighting up the land, but leaving him in shadow. 

Why then, was it different this time? He entertained the thought that he was simply loosing his touch - but why now? Why not eons ago, when The Dragon had told him he was fated to die? 

It was almost as though there was a third party trying to tip the scale onto its side entirely. Rathma shuddered at the idea, or perhaps the chilly winds tugging at him again.

Perhaps, he wondered, it had something to do with the meddling angel. No, not Tyrael, the other meddling angel. Malthael. 

The spirit that they’d both encountered had, unfortunately, a point about him. Rathma didn’t like it, but Malthael had been embedded into Death. That alone tied him much more closely with the balance, and gave him the potential to flip it around completely. 

He had once already, after all. Star above knew correcting that was still an ongoing issue. 

Confronting him about it was out of the question though. He was holed up in Heaven, and Imperius was apparently a mother hen when it came to anything born of the arch. Going after Malthael would not end well for anyone. Not that Rathma even wanted to see or speak with him again. He’d quite rather the old bastard kept his nonexistent nose out of his business, thank you very much. 

The Nephalem couldn’t explain it, but he had the strangest feeling that it was not Malthael anyway. Maybe the angel would know something useful, but Rathma doubted he was the actual cause of the strange tipping in the balance. He knew what Malthael’s powers and actions felt like. Knew what to look for when he was active. 

Despite encountering him on Sanctuary, interacting with a human soul no less, Rathma could sense no way in which the angel had further disrupted anything in the balance. 

It was frustrating. The angel was really the only thing he could think of that was out of the ordinary at the moment. 

Times like this he missed having the others to rely on. Having that extra set of eyes and ears, or even just the perspective of another mind was a boon that he’d enjoyed much of his life. Rathma could admit he’d grown used to having either Kalan, Trag, or those dwelling in the Necropolis to discuss things with. Working on his own was...it simply wasn’t what he was used to anymore. 

He’d come to terms with the fact that Kalan and The Dragon were gone long ago. The Necropolis was empty, and only a few of his estranged students remained. Rathma was nearly alone again, back to where he’d started all those eons back. 

Alone against a force he did not know, and thus, could not combat. 

Well. Perhaps he should try and change that. Sanctuary was not without its defenders these days.

Would the new Nephalem be of any help? Maybe, probably, but they were scattered across the globe. Something to keep in mind, but hunting them down to go on a wild goose chase would more than likely be a waste of everyone’s time without a direction to aim them in.

The Horadrim? ...No thank you. Maybe as a last resort, but. No. 

The small frown on Rathma’s face tightened as he continued to stare dully at the just-now-waking lands. Until he could find out more, he was on his own. His cloak fluttered irritably around him. 

The old Nephalem did not move for a very long time, seemingly taking in the scenery before him. 

Well, he knew his next course of action then. Explore, research, discover. With a nod to himself, the Nephalem vanished from his shadowed spot on the cliff-side.


	4. A Discovery Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two fledgling Horadrim are on a mission. What could possibly go wrong?

In the moorland tucked between Khanduras and the Sharval Wilds were many a ruined town or fort, left for who-knows-how-long. Most were completely abandoned, some were in the process of being reclaimed. Some had become home to roving bandit groups, and most still held some treasures or secrets. 

Officially, Asi and Zan were simply here to record what state some of these ruins were in. Were there any structures left? Was anything living there? Could the place possibly be retrofitted into a base of operations for their order? 

All these questions needed to be answered by the two of them with every site they crossed. As was typical, their mission detailed four possible ruins to discover. They’d been given their routes and escape routes, rations, equipment, and emergency scrolls. Tyrael and the higher ranking members of the Horadrim were careful to ensure every mission was planned, all the supplies would last, and that no one would face any issue due to negligence on their part. 

Not that Zan was really worried. The last three ruins had been a breeze (two little more than a cluster of empty, dilapidated shacks, one that had a little more stone and structure to it.) They were almost to their fourth destination, and she was quite sure it would be as simple a visit as the last three. 

She and Asi were some of the newer, younger members of the Horadrim, and had only recently been cleared for missions without a senior warrior to accompany them. This meant that their assignments would be as simple as the others could make them, until they gained more experience. 

As was standard for their order. Everyone started out small, and worked their way up. 

Zan was perfectly content with this. Asi was really quite bored, but seemed happy enough to be out in the wilderness, and not cooped up in a study. 

The two had been traveling in companionable silence for several hours now. Zan knew they were close (maps were such useful things), and Asi had been periodically reaching out to try and sense any magic. 

They trod along, the two of them. Asi's boots were starting to pinch slightly, and Zan was just shy of being too warm. If their destination didn't show soon, they'd more than likely take a break.The moors were a consistently foggy place, much to Zan’s surprise. Having grown up in Westmarch city, she was used to the weather being a consistently shifting thing. Here though, it seemed to stay the same: foggy, dank, not exactly cold but certainly not warm. 

It was almost uncomfortable, but certainly not the worst.

“Oh, that must be it.” Asi uttered, bringing Zan out of her musings. Sure enough, out of the cloying fog had melted some rugged, stone structure. 

“Right on schedule.” She nodded to her companion. 

“Maybe we’ll find something interesting here hm?” Asi jostled her partner’s pack playfully, earning a scoff. 

“Riiiight, just as long as it’s not your definition of interesting.” Zan primly snipped back. 

“Aww, still hurting from those wood wraiths?” 

“I had to pull both our asses out of that one, so yes.” 

They glared at one-another in mock-aggravation for a moment, before bursting into giggles. Both maintained their good-spirit as they wandered into the ruins. Thankfully, there was no longer a gate keeping the main entrance shut.They stopped just inside, catching their breath and assessing their surroundings. To their surprise, the walls turned out to be ramparts, complete with parapets. 

Zan took the place in with a critical eye. “Looks like a fortress.”

“Agreed.” Asi nodded to her partner. “But who was defending it? And from what?”

Zan shrugged. “As long as they’re not still around, could be anything.” 

After standing around a little while longer, Zan passed out water skins, and they strolled into the main courtyard together. Stretched out before them were several dusty old buildings, still shrouded in the fog. Silence reigned over the fort. 

“...Seems abandoned.” Asi spoke softly between sips, even as she began trying to feel for signs of life - or magic. So far...she couldn’t be sure. But maybe there was something. 

“Tyrael didn’t mention the place being a fortress.” Zan grumbled. “I thought it was just a ghost town?” She reached for her partner's water skin, and pocketed them both once more.

“Maybe it used to be.” Asi offered as she drew out her spear. “But perhaps they fortified over the years? This close to the mount, I can certainly see...why they might…” The sorceress’s brows drew together, as she raised her spear and began channeling her magic through it. There was definitely something here, she could sense it now. 

Peering quizzically at her companion, Zan immediately picked up in the tightening of her shoulders and the stiffening of her stance. She drew her own spear.

“Where?” She asked. Asi started in a direction, and he followed, covering her back. 

They were headed for an innocuous passageway tucked into the ground. Seemed the Fortress had an underbelly. 

* * *

  
Zan had lost track of how long they’d been exploring. It couldn’t have been too long, for she was only now becoming hungry, and it had only been a few hours to midday when they’d arrived. But it felt like it had been an eternity. 

There wasn’t much in the tunnels beneath the fortress. Not much, but slime, mold, musty air, and an ever-increasing feeling that they should not be there. When she’d timidly brokered the feeling with Asi, she had reported much the same. But they were Horadrim, and if there was danger here it was their duty to ferret it out. 

Still. It was unnerving to have been here so long and found nothing. 

Almost as if on cue, a sound echoed from up ahead, and Zan mentally smacked herself. Asi fell into a stance, and Zan did the same, bringing her weapon up as she’d been trained. After a moment of silence, they began to edge forward together. 

More sounds echoed, whispers, moans, or perhaps murmurs. 

“Asi, what is it?” Zan frightfully whispered. She gripped her spear tightly, and had it firmly aimed in the direction the sounds had come from. 

“I don’t- I can’t tell.” The other Horadrim returned. She squashed the urge to squeeze her eyes shut and focus - she needed to be able to see here. The blood-scent was thick, and there was magic in the air… it didn’t take a sorceress-scholar to know that there was danger. 

The sound of someone moaning, or perhaps casting a spell picked up again. It was coming from around the corner, and Asi determinedly headed for it. Zan swallowed a whine, and dutifully followed her companion. 

Of course it was their particular mission that went awry. It was supposed to be a regular old exploration with minimal risk of demons or cultists. Tyrael was usually very good about sending inexperienced members of their order on the less-dangerous missions. 

The duo crept ever-so-carefully together. There was definitely someone here, they could hear the words clearly now. Unfortunately, neither had any idea what was being said. It certainly sounded like spellwork, even to Zan’s untrained ears. 

They came to a stone archway, and hid themselves in the corners near the frame. 

Beyond the archway was what looked to be a great hall of sorts. Certainly much larger than anything they’d expected to find down here. Haunting statues of men and women twisted inhumanly lined the walls. A wide staircase led down into a pit of sorts where-

Asi fought down a retch, and Zan was not much better off. 

A pit of blood, bone and flesh. There was no overpowering stench of rot, so it must have been awfully, wretchedly fresh. 

Beside the pit, overlooking it, was a man. Asi gestured to Zan, fingers flashing in a rough sign-language. The other Horadrim gave her a confused, fearful look, and in response she pointed frantically at one of the pack-pockets. 

Face lighting up in understanding, Zan reach back into the pouch that held her spyglass. Silently, she drew it up and cautiously peered out into the room.

The man looked to be human, albeit very tall, extremely pale and strangely dressed. Leather armor and a hooded cloak gave him the appearance of a dark warrior, or maybe… Zan gave him another once-over, and realized there were runes covering his garb. A sorcerer? He had a gleaming, twisted dagger in hand, held point-down over the blood-pit. 

A shift from Asi made her look to the other Horadrim. She emphatically patted her own face. Oh, right. 

Zan brought up the scope once more, focusing intently on the maybe-sorcerer’s face. Yup, still pale, very angular features and...oh. The eyes. She fought down a shudder, and kept looking. Black pits of nothingness, devoid of any emotion. The man suddenly tilted his face upwards, mouth drawn open in a sigh, and Zan recoiled back. She thought she'd seen _fangs_. 

Words drifted from the chamber then, and they were definitely words of power, words of a summoning. 

Asi frantically waved at the way they came, and Zan was more than happy to follow. Quietly though, they did not want this stranger to know they were there. 

Unfortunately for them, the stranger had known from the moment they’d stepped into the town of their presence. A thin, quietly-pleased lit up that angular face. Mother would be quite pleased with the progress of his plan, of this he was certain.   
  
Now, all he need do was call her home...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be posting a follow-up mini-chapter early next week!


	5. Short Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diablo 4? I barely know 'er!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say Wednesday? Well Tuesday is better lol

In a place that could be called the remotest part of existence, something stirred. Someone. 

She was being summoned, she could feel it. It had been...so long...so very long since she’d felt anything. This was positively exquisite, if unexpected. She wondered if this were another dream, or perhaps a hallucination, and felt a very far-away kind of despair at the thought. 

The nothingness began to draw away, replaced by red-red-red. Someone was murmuring softly. There was air, dank and old, but it was the sweetest thing she’d ever drawn over her lips when she breathed. It was disorienting, her limbs felt heavy and awkward with the weight of gravity tugging that them now. For the first time in eons, she felt the slightest bit _alive._

Around her was a chamber, fortunately dark and nearly lightless. The last time her eyes had dealt with anything more than raw-blackness had been with _him_. Beneath her were three pillars and...bodies. Many many bodies. She could see that now, feel it, smell the must and the blood, oh, the sweetest of scents truly. 

Her descent continued.

Lilith felt the stone beneath her cloves hooves, heard them click together. Felt the warm, living hand in her own (when had they grabbed her?) draw away. 

“Blessed mother…” They murmured worshipfully as they knelt before her, and Lilith decided this must’ve been a splendid dream indeed. “Save us.” 

The pale-faced man must’ve been Linarian, she decided, and a vicious smile tugged at her lips. Perhaps different than she remembered, but it had been a long while, and her children were stubbornly adaptable. 

“My son,” Lilith rhasped, and licked her lips (awfully dry after being left to the void so long). “You have pleased me.”

The face turned up to look at her, and for a moment the demoness doubted her initial thought. But no, who else but her precious child could have brought her from her living nightmare? 

“Tell me now,” Lilith opened her hands to the kneeling figure, and drew her son to his feet. “Tell me what has become of my Sanctuary, and my Nephalem.” And her son smiled at her, thin and soft as he used to when he was new to the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short like that on purpose.


	6. What a Headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malthael fights a migraine, and the Heavens are overstimulating.

Malthael pressed a hand to his temple with a barely-suppressed whine. The Sound only grew louder, echoing around his resonance maddeningly. The urge to go, to find a way to make it stop was getting very close to overwhelming. 

Were he not so hyper-focused on the constant throbs of pain, the angel would acknowledge that this was different than the spikes in Sound he usually encountered. Normally (if the occurrence could ever be called such) it was a swell in volume, an aimless increase in the cacophony of voices and wails. This, however, was much more akin to someone shouting his name across time and space. And whoever was yelling was too damn loud. 

All this Malthael was distantly aware of, and would have likely put to further study were it not for the aggravation it caused. 

Thus far, he’d not been able to explain just how immense the Sound could be at times. How all-encompassing, how straining hearing it was. Not that he’d put much effort into explaining it to the other angels. Auriel insisted the therapy was for his own sake, but he couldn’t help the paranoid feeling that it was all to keep him under more observation. They were all too afraid of him, and the Sound would only scare them further. Malthael was, unfortunately, quite certain that telling the other angel’s of the Sound and its effects on him would be of no help. 

Well. Perhaps telling one angel would. 

He had to find Imperius. Find him, make him understand, and hopefully get his help. And if not...then he had to hope his old friend would forgive him for fleeing the Heavens once more. 

Teleporting was out of the question when he couldn’t focus. Flying was also risky. His study wasn’t exactly close to the Halls of Valor though. It was actually almost on the complete opposite end of the Silver City. When they’d constructed the place, all Malthael had considered was the constant clattering and clashing of Imperius’s warriors, and promptly decided he wanted to be anywhere but near that.

At no point had he thought of potentially needing the Archangel of Valor’s presence with haste. Certainly, there had been times during the Eternal War where it would’ve benefited being able to take a quick counsel with Imperius. Nothing like this though - nothing so desperate.

Malthael might’ve been regretting this oversight now. 

The thought of going into that noisy place in the state he was in was rather torturous, but sitting around and doing nothing was worse. 

Carefully, the angel straightened himself, and tried to focus past the Sound. Right. Out the door. Down the stairs. Across the pools, which were thankfully silent and empty. Right. This he could do. 

Within the first few steps, he was quite sure this was the worst idea he’d ever had. The stairs were a spiraling, dizzying thing to face, when he could neither think nor see straight. 

The Sound continued to swell and throb urgently though, and Malthael forced himself onward. Base of the stairs, this was good. This was progress. His wings spread out for balance, despite their aggravated buzzing and flickering, and he continued on. 

His footsteps were somewhere between irritating and a blessing, for the clacking was wholly unpleasant, but it gave him something else to try and focus on. 

Not falling into the dried-up riverbeds was harder than he remembered. They twisted and curved around in such an erratic way, that not only were they a hazard...but they were reminding him very much of the flow of souls in Pandemonium. It made him stumble and balk, and the Sound pressed ever-more down on him. 

Malthael let out an immense, angry hiss, armor and wings puffing up. He was _not_ going to think about that. In fact, he was going to get out of here, right this instant, even if doing so was really a foolish idea.  
  
Raising his wings, the angel lofted himself up, and glided towards the doors. Surprisingly, flying was not as big a strain as he’d anticipated. His head still throbbed, and his gaze felt blurry, but the caress of the air around him was wholly welcome. Almost a relief really.

Until he misjudged his landing and skidded erratically into the doorway with an obnoxious clattering of armor. 

“Ouch.” the angel growled, clinging to the frame. Slowly, he sank to his knee, and rested his forehead against the door. That had been the easy part, he knew. The Sound was no quieter now than when he’d started - actually, he thought it might’ve been getting worse, and a whimper wrangled itself from his resonance. 

Outside, out in Heaven was...so much. So much light, so much noise, so many angels. In days gone past, he would’ve huddled in his study for eons, rather than face the erratic, loud, so-very-bright Silver City. He knew it was probably too much, and tunnel-visioning one’s way through Heaven’s skies was a good way to crash into something, or even someone. 

It was necessary though. 

As he straightened himself, Malthael found himself longing for the peaceful nothingness of Pandemonium, or even Sanctuary. Never had he thought he’d want to be on that little mudball, but the thought of a quiet evening where there was only starlight and gentle wind...it was tempting. Far more tempting than venturing out into Heaven anyway. 

Nothing to be done though. Malthael was effectively trapped here, and the only way out was through the maze of his brethren. 

Steeling himself, the angel made another effort to focus on what he needed to do. Open the door, get out. Get through the gardens (potentially a monumental task). Skirt the Library - not get tempted by the wonderful silence he knew Itherael’s realm contained. Risk flying over the Courts of Justice? Certainly he didn’t want to go through them. His head throbbed at having to try and decide, and he concluded he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. 

Okay. Time to go. Doing his best to block out the Sound, Malthael yanked open the door with the intent of throwing himself through with utmost haste. 

He very promptly smacked face-first into Imperius. 


	7. Gathering of Nasties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma and some demons make a big damn mess.

There was blood on his hands. His face too. At some point in the battle he'd removed his gloves for casting purposes, and managed to smear himself. Kalan would have told him in ten different ways how gross he thought that was. Rathma wouldn't have cared, for he'd been effective, and that was enough. While the dagger was certainly his most potent of channels he possessed, sometimes being able to launch a spell from his very fingertips with but a thought was just too useful.

It did usually make for a mess afterwards though.

Far greater was the mess his adversaries had caused. Demons were rarely known for being tidy.

The cavern they nested in had _already_ been caked with the remnants of previous meals and… whatever other activities the demons had seen fit to do. That pointed to them having been present here for a while now. He hadn't found any human remains among the demonic, for which Rathma was grateful. It didn't take a genius to figure they were amassing for an attack on the nearby settlements.

It had been a large gathering. Nothing he couldn't handle, but fighting them all hadn't exactly been his intention when he stepped foot into the cave-system. Usually he preferred to find out more before resorting to bloodshed.

The demons must have sensed his presence, despite his shields. They had attacked. It almost felt as though they'd been waiting for him…

Odd, considering he'd stopped here on a whim.

A few wayward souls drifted about him now, watching to see what he'd do next. They weren't high on his priorities, but eventually he'd have to send them on their way. Maybe he'd see if they knew anything about the cavern first, but given they'd followed him in from the moors, he had his doubts of their usefulness.

First thing was first though. He had a mess to clean up.

With a heartfelt sigh, Rathma drew himself up, and cast about for where to start. Taking care of bodies was something he'd been doing his whole life, and thus, was quite efficient at. It still took precious time and effort though. He'd been sloppy due to surprise. There was blood _everywhere_.

He wiped his face, and drew his dagger.

To leave the corpses of demons on Sanctuary would be folly. Even when dead they exude their foul touch, and would act as a beacon to more of their kin. Or at the very least, they'd stink up the place and contaminate the land with their rotting flesh.

Exactly why there had been such a large gathering, Rathma couldn't say. There had easily been thirty-odd demons of varying species all cloying about. He was no expert on demons, certainly, but he knew enough to recognize strange behavior when he saw it; Demons usually stuck to their own species. When everyone was a potential foe competing for resources, making friends was very uncommon.

The only consistent reason he'd ever encountered for a gathering like this was some larger, stronger force commanding them.

Though he outwardly did not show it, internally Rathma was rather tumultuous over this. The only give-away was the nervous snapping and fluttering of his cloak as he worked. That, and the ways the spirits gave each other nervous looks. As he had insights into the wants and feelings of the dead, so too could they get a glimpse of his own psyche.

Blood and gore tidily dusted away as he rapidly aged and decomposed the remains. Once dissipated, he cast his medley of purifying spells, cleaning away their magic as well. All it took was a wave of the dagger and a mumbling of syllables, but he had to do so for each body.

Aside from making a note of what species he was encountering, Rathma paid his work little mind. He'd done this often enough that it was ingrained into him.

Being a Commander of the Dead often had much more in common with being a scullery maid than ordering armies around. Or just having an audience during his day-to-day life, such as now. If the specters had any opinions on his work, they kept it to themselves, and left him to his own thoughts.

A stronger demon on Sanctuary did not bode well. It never did. Let alone a stronger demon that had already started spreading its influence over other hellions. He had to find whatever demon this was, quickly.

Although…

Rathma paused, and began idly levitating a pool of blood. It followed the movements of his hands and fingers, forming into abstract patterns. Perhaps mistaking the movements for a summoning, the souls occupying the cave with him drew close, and watched his actions curiously. He paid them no mind though. Doing something with his hands helped him think sometimes. Trag had thought it might be conjuring. Kalan thought he just needed the physical outlet. Rathma didn't particularly care; either way, it worked.

It was increasingly possible that he was stumbling into another Mage Clan situation. Men had summoned the first demons of Hell onto Sanctuary all those lifetimes ago, and continued this dubious 'tradition' into the modern day. Mages, cultists, fools who had no idea what they were doing… he'd encountered summoners from all walks of life, and dealt with them appropriately.

If it were a mortal calling and commanding demons, then...well, the situation might not necessarily be _worse_ , but it would still be far from good.

His fingers curled. The blood he'd been controlling shifted into sharper, more aggressive patterns. Around him, the spirits scattered into a flurry of movement.

Finding whoever was commanding these fiends was essential. Find them, learn all he could about their plans and intentions...and then remove them. Do whatever was necessary to halt the influx of demonic energy into his world.

There were, of course, multiple ways to deal with a summoner. He could just kill them. Destroy any evidence of their work, perhaps take a few notes for his own. This plan had its setbacks though - were it a demon, killing them would only respawn them in the Abyss. And they might not be working alone. Blocking the channels they used to ferry from Hell to Sanctuary was wholly possible, although difficult. One needed to find the channels before they could be blocked, and most were not readily observable.

Removing memories was also within his power. It was a highly unpleasant sensation for everyone involved though, and extremely dangerous if attempted on the wrong being.

Rathma let the blood he'd been toying with sizzle into nothingness, and mumbled a purifying spell under his breath. Once he was done here, he had an awful lot of work to do, and who knew how long to do it. Best to stop musing, and get to it.


	8. What did you see?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zan and Asi made it back to the Horadrim. The Horadrim have questions.

"Start from the top. You saw this… this figure. Can you tell me about him?" Tyrael's posture was forcibly relaxed. His voice was gentle, and his eyes were kind. Seated on a stool in his private study, hands folded politely in his lap, there wasn't much that seemed threatening about him.

Asi thought it was jest at times that he was once the imposing Archangel of Justice. More often than not he reminded her of her grandfather. Then again, she had yet to see him in combat, and Lorath had stressed it was a sight to behold. 

...Danger grandpa...

She and Zan had made it back to their order without complication. Those portal scrolls had come in awfully handy, and she was once again grateful for the Enchantress that penned them.

Of course, the rest of the Horadrim had been shocked and dismayed at their findings. That the two had returned early, and by portal no less, immediately set off warning bells with the rest of their order. The danger they had encountered hadn't really set in until they were away from it. Zan had nearly broken down, and Asi couldn't blame her.

The Horadrim had mobilized fast though. Their leaders were gathered, and preparations were made for whatever disaster they might unveil.

Tyrael, of course, wanted as much information as they could provide. Lorath too, although he'd taken over Tyrael's desk and favored writing everything down over asking questions. The two made a good team like that.

At the door were two more of the senior Horadrim; Cullen the Scholar, and a woman Asi didn't really recognize. The looked to be some kind of sorceress, or perhaps a mage. Given she was _also_ a spell-castor, she made a mental note to figure out this woman later. For now, they had a story to tell. Or rather, Zan did. 

"Well…" Zan picked at the sheets on the cot they were perched on, and looked to her companion. Asi shrugged in response. Tyrael waited patiently for them to conclude their silent exchange. With an encouraging gesture from her companion, Zan settled herself and spoke.

"He - well he was a he - at least I'm pretty sure he was a he. Very pale, real tall." She raised her arms, indicating height. "Could've used me as a chin-rest, not that we were close enough for that. His eyes were-" She hesitated, looking a little bit ill. Asi rested an encouraging hand on her back.

"Take your time." Tyrael soothed.

Zan nodded, swallowed, licked her lips. "They were black. Dark pits, like there was no soul in them. I'm glad he didn't look at me, I mean, I was scared enough looking at him could you imagine if he'd-"

"Zan." Asi gently interrupted, rubbing soothing circles on her partner's back. Discreetly, she signed to one of their brethren to fetch a glass of water. Cullen silently left the room.

The other Horadrim sighed, and nodded. "Real scary black eyes. Face was angular, he probably cuts himself on his own cheeks every morning. He was...he was shaped like a human, arms legs head, no tail or hooves or nothin', but…" But they all had their doubts about that.

"You said you thought he was a Necromancer." Tyrael redirected the conversation. "Why so?"

Zan opened her mouth, but at that moment Asi offered her the glass of water. With a surprised 'oh thanks', she sipped, and thought over her answer.

"There was definitely magic being performed." Asi spoke up. "But it was a strange one. I couldn't even tell what it was at first, but when we got to the pit…Well. I don't study black magics, but this was most certainly dark."

Tyrael nodded, and Lorath briefly looked up from his writing. He and the woman at the door shared a look, before he was back to transcribing.

"I think it was his armor that made me think Necromancer. It was covered in runes, although I suppose that could've made him any other kind of mage." Zan spoke up, sounding contemplative. "Or maybe it was the dagger?" She missed the way everyone save for Asi tensed at that word.

"Can you describe this dagger?" Cullen suddenly asked, the first he'd spoken. Zan blinked up at him, mystified.

"Well sure. It was real shiny metal, almost thought it was glowing. Not a speck on it, despite all the-" She gulped, looking pale. "All the blood in the pit. Curvy too, I don't think I've ever seen a blade so wiggly-all-over-the-place."

The room was silent, and Zan was abruptly very uncomfortable. Had she said something wrong? Asi pressed to her side though, so it couldn't have been that wrong.

"...It seems as though your initial thoughts were correct." Lorath spoke slowly. He and Tyrael shared a grave look. They both knew of one person in particular who fit the description, and if this was indeed him…

"Shanar, have you been in contact with Zayl of late?" Tyrael turned and asked the unknown woman.

"No." She answered with a frown. "But I know where he might be found." At a nod from the former-angel, she dipped her head, and spun about to leave.

"Uh, one other thing." Asi spoke up before anyone else could leave. "We're pretty sure he was summoning something big."

"What makes you say that?" Cullen asked intently.

"All that blood." The scholar-sorceress shivered. "All those bodies. He started casting right as we left, it was definitely a summoning, and with all that resource behind it? Well, it _had_ to be big, right?"


	9. Don't Tell Mom or Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malthael pleads his case to Imperius, whose probably not telling him something.

Under normal circumstances, Malthael would’ve been very miffed about being bustled back into his study. After all his hard work getting out, getting brought back in was a little disheartening. He was too wound up to really care now though.

He and Imperius had stared at one another for what felt like lifetimes, but was probably a minute at most. Malthael, plastered against that shiny-warm breastplate, and Imperius, looking somewhere between befuddled and eternally-annoyed. Valor had wasted little time in bodily scooping the other angel up, and tossed him over one thick shoulder for prompt transportation back to where he’d come from.

The indignity was not lost on Malthael, and he’d probably find a way to get back at his friend. Later. Maybe. If only his head would stop pounding. 

Silence reigned for a long moment, while Malthael tried not to fall out of the chair he’d been dumped in, and Imperius did some very thorough eyeballing. 

...He should probably say something before the one angel he wanted to talk to got bored and wandered off.

“I was coming to find you.” Malthael’s voice was even softer than usual. Imperius tilted his head a fraction, considering.

It was strange. Never before had he considered Imperius a particularly still angel. He was prone to action, and thought things through quickly. Handy traits in a Field-General, who had to not only plan campaigns, but be prepared for them to go wrong and react accordingly. Malthael supposed that would be part of why the angel’s current stillness seemed so odd: he rarely interacted with his brother if there was not a battle afoot. 

Tucked away in the private study, facing a brother who looked two inches and a bad word away from a nervous breakdown, and Imperius was very still indeed. 

“What for?” Imperius’s voice was rarely so quiet, and Malthael wasn’t sure whether he was thankful for that, or unnerved by it. Most angels had nice voices. They were all resonant tones that sprang from the arch, and were made to weave together in a grand symphony of sound.

Archangel’s had particularly distinct voices. Where a normal member of their species usually had one note to work with, Archangels had entire scales when they sang. However, changing a note mid-sentence could change the voice entirely. It was handy for mimicry or in battle, when one needed to be heard. Alternatively, they could speak in sub-tones that the ears of a demon (or human) could not register. 

In conversation, however, it could be disruptive and downright strange to alter one’s note. As though someone started speaking with an entirely new voice. Thus, the five of them had chosen a note early on to be their speaking voices, and never wavered. 

Except Imperius apparently did. Who knew he had a note for shouting (which he typically did) and one for speaking. It was still a powerful sound, but there was little aggression, and Malthael found it soothing, if odd. 

Slouching against the desk, he propped his face against one hand and peered up at his friend. 

“The Sound.” Was all he could manage after a beat. That was all there was to it. Imperius knew he’d given an order for Malthael to seek him should he hear it. He didn’t need to be told twice. 

Apparently, Imperius did not like this answer. His resonance gave a little snarl, wings flickering anxiously. Malthael’s own wings flicked tiredly in silent reply.

“The Sound.” The other angel tried out the words. “It is calling you again...and making you like - this?” He gestured widely at Malthael, indicating his whole being. Wordlessly, he nodded in reply. 

With a small growl, the other angel nodded as well. “And how do we...stop...the Sound?” 

Bless him, Malthael and Imperius both knew that he was out of his depth here. That stubborn protective streak mixed with the knowledge that these matters were (usually) better left to others. Exactly why the other angel didn’t summon Auriel, or even Itherael… well, Malthael could hazard a few guesses. None of them were reassuring, and only served to make him more anxious, so he pointedly stopped thinking about it. 

“Stop the source.” Malthael uttered. “Someone is...shouting.” His wings shuddered and folded themselves. 

Imperius looked like he wanted to pace, but thought against it. “Then shutting them up is a priority.” He looked his friend up and down, taking in the hunched stature, the way he massaged where his temples would be, the quiet irritation to his resonance. Yes, he would be shutting this Sound up, hopefully with a spear rammed up its-

“It comes from Sanctuary. Specifically the dead of Sanctuary” Came the tired warning. The former aspect of Wisdom was well-aware of how his friend would want to deal with something like this. It was touching he supposed. 

Going to Sanctuary raised a whole slew of other issues. Malthael wondered distantly if Imperius would insist on raising it at this apparent offense of Sound, and hoped not. It would not help matters. He knew this intimately. 

Imperius’s armor stiffened, making him look larger and angrier. Of course it came from that little mudball. Of course.

One armored hand waved as if to dispel that fact. “And you can...track the source?” 

Malthael peered up at him. His voice had changed again back to its normal aggressive boom. Perhaps when they were done, he would find a way to catalogue this phenomenon. 

“It grows louder,” He offered, “When I am near.” 

Personally, Imperius thought louder was not a good idea. It was making his friend a mess as was, what would louder do to him? He was in no mood to fight Malthael if the other angel lost his mind again. 

“Prepare yourself then.” He spoke gruffly instead. “And we will go.” 

Surprise was evident in the way Malthael jerked and stared at him. “But Tyrael...Auriel and Itherael -” 

“Don’t need to know.” Oh and there was something very uncomfortable in the way Imperius spoke, in the way his armor settled wearily. There was something in Heaven that Malthael had missed. 

As he pushed himself up out of his chair, the angel’s hand brushed against the notes he’d been compiling on Heaven’s defenses. It made him hesitate.

...later. He’d give them to Imperius when this was done. If it was just another errant soul, it should not take more than a day or so. This would probably annoy the other angel, but he had already agreed, and changing Imperius’s mind was close to impossible. Not even Tyrael could do it. 

Valor grabbed him by the wrist, and his wings lit up in preparation to teleport. Something occurred to Malthael then, as they were about to leave.

“Why did you come here?” His voice was still quiet, but with confused urgency.

“Do not worry yourself over it.” 

Oh, and nothing might’ve made him worry quite like that reply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it that Malthael is never around when Imperius isn't shouting, or that Imperius is always shouting when Malthael is around?


	10. Enter the Necro-Horadrim and his Lovely Assistant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayl did not sign up for this. He's a good sport about it though.

True to her word, Shanar had known exactly where she'd find Zayl. It was more luck of the times than anything; over the years the core group of Horadrim that stole into Heaven had stuck together. Grown closer.

Close enough that the former-necromancer had confided in her and Jacob one night, after they'd all drank enough to be comfortable. She knew of Salene. She knew of the woman's death, and when it had happened. Similarly, she and Jacob had aired their ghosts, lanced their wounds. It was ass scary as it was relieving to bring her skeletons out of the closet. 

Pestering her friend when he was mourning sat ill at ease with her, but it had to be done - there was too much at stake. Zayl had understood. Quiet and dependable, that's how he was. The man had readily agreed to come with her, and answer whatever questions Tyrael and Lorath might have for him. It had been Shanar's insistence that they finish paying respects, together, before departing.

It was really quite unfair, she thought, that he had no one left (so much like her, ao much like everyone else in Sanctuary). His order was gone, family taken with it. The woman he'd loved, dead for years. At least there was the Horadrim, duty-bound as they were.

It was also unfair to her that apparently the patron of necromancy was the one causing trouble this time.

"The cloak, and the dagger." Zayl was saying again, peering hard at the two novice Horadrim that had, apparently, encountered Rathma of all people. "Did the first seem alive?"

"Well, no." Zan admitted.

"Actually yes." another voice piped up. "It was writhing about him, even though there was nary a breeze to be felt."

The two who thought they'd encountered Malthael had also been brought in. Tyrael had wanted to be sure about a great many things. Lockne and Doyle, their names were. Shanar got along well with Lockne, Doyle less so. Fortunately, it was the former doing the talking.

Zayl nodded, looking gravely between both. "And each bore a dagger?"

Zan's head bobbed, and Lockne's lips pursed. She looked down at Doyle, who shrugged.

"Maybe. Our encounter was more...fleeting. A being of shadow, hanging around a cemetery." Her smile was grim. "We thought he was just someone paying respects."

"Till we saw that cloak o' course. An' the wings." Doyle finally spoke up.

"Wings?" Zayl's voice was sharp.

"Ours didn't have wings." Zan squinted, trying to remember. "He had a face though, does the Necromancer King have a face?" Her partner sighed, fond and exasperated.

"He did yes." Thank the stars for a necromancer's stubborn monotony. "Although he was no king." 

"It was oddly...perfect." Squinting, the young Horadrim tried very hard to describe the summoner's face. "I don't think he had a mark on him. And angular too, real sharp cheekbones."

Shanar hadn't thought Zayl could get any paler. Lo and behold…

"We couldn't see a face." Lockne admitted. "Real pointy hood though. Doyle though they must've been wearing a bun underneath for it to stick up like that." Doyle nodded approvingly.

Zayl rubbed his chin and thought, and glanced over at Tyrael. In truth, Tyrael was the only one of them who had _actually_ seen Rathma in the flesh before. It had been an awfully long time ago, and, as Shanar had pointed out, mortals were heinously adaptable. Who could say that the former-angel would recognize him, even if they stood before one-another. Zayl had depictions and legends to go off of, but he would readily admit that there would be some inconsistencies between those and the real world.

After all those rounds of questions, they were both closer and farther from knowing the truth. Shanar was frustrated, and had no idea how Zayl was keeping it together. Eventually, they dismissed the younger Horadrim, leaving only herself, Zayl, Lorath and Tyrael.

"Just so we're all clear about this," Lorath spoke after a lengthy silence. "This being could be Rathma. It could also be Malthael. Or an entirely different party. We could be dealing with one, both, and neither.

She hadn't considered that it could be the both of them before now. Somehow, Shanar really did not want it to be that option. One crazed death-raiser at a time, thank you.

Tyrael eyed the Horadrim a moment. "All of this is true." His voice seemed almost far away, and Lorath had known him long enough to identify his 'thinking voice.'

"We don't have enough evidence." Shanar stated. "Two deathly figures, clad in runic armor and billowing black cloaks."

"One with wings." Tyrael added.

"One with a face." Lorath nodded to himself.

"One with a dagger." Zayl added.

"And they're both real pointy!" A muffled voice piped up. Humbart had remained in Zayl's bag for the duration of the conversation, not wanting to spook the unfamiliar Horadrim. Instead he'd listened keenly to the details being given.

They all sat in frustrated silence, digesting the ideas they'd voiced.

"Whether it is one being or two," Tyrael began slowly, "It would be unwise to assume it's coincidental that both encounters happened so close together."

"Geographically speaking, they were far apart." Lorath shuffled some papers where he sat at Tyrael's desk again. "Lockne and Doyle had their encounter all the way out near Kurast. Zan and Asi were north of here, somewhere in the moorlands of Einsteg."

"My old order resides in the East." Zayl quietly spoke up. "The remains anyway."

"Remains o' the day…" Humbart added as Zayl pulled him out of his bag, and settled the skull in his lap.

Shanar frowned. "That's as helpful as it isn't. The first sighting leans more towards the descriptions of Malthael, the second, more towards your Rathma. But the locations don't exactly support this." She fell silent, thinking, and Tyrael waved her to speak again. She shrugged. "The East is a place brimming with old magic - I can only assume that was why you lot settled there in the first place."

"That and the weather." Zayl agreed with a small smile.

Humbart giggled mischievously "And all the bones! Can't forget those."

"It would line up more to find the first Necromancer near where his kind lived, and died." This they could all agree on - although, it didn't necessarily make it the truth. "And if I were either of them, I'd rather go as far away from Westmarch as possible." Shanar declared. "It's where we are anyway. Where you are."

At this, she stabbed a finger at Tyrael. The once-angel blinked at her. Lorath nodded in agreement.

"If someone is ever posing a threat to Sanctuary," the Horadrim spoke up. "Then you've been one of its key defenders for eons now."

"It does make you something to avoid." Zayl nodded once.

"Or a big target." Shanar grimly added.

They all sat in silence, each one turning over what had been said. They simply didn't have enough information here, and that was the crux of it.

"Don't explain our pal up in Einstag though." the skull in Zayl's lap mused. "Why come all the way over here for a summoning? Zayl's buddies used to summon all sorts of beasties back home. What's up there that he wants?"

"Apparently, a bunch of bodies." Lorath answered with a grimace.

"He has a point." Zayl patted the skull. "Environment can make all the difference when calling something into our world. There must have been something in the old fort that aided with the process somehow."

They all thought this over a moment.

"I never took Malthael for a summoner." Shanar grumbled. "Thought he hated demons. Why call one up now?"

"It...would be out of character for him." Tyrael let out a sigh. "Or at least...would have been."

"Rathma would be the more logical suspect for a summoner. He would be more than capable. And the description does fit him better." Zayl admitted.

"But then, what would either o' them want in a graveyard back home? And haul their butts back West, just to call up some wretch?" Humbart asked, loud and upset. They were going in circles here, and everyone was starting to get frustrated.

Lorath lent against his desk with a sigh, and Shanar sat down. They all shared a few looks. Everyone knew that they simply didn't have enough information to work with here.

"Well," Tyrael finally spoke. "I can likely confirm whether one of our suspects is guilty."

Everyone paused- and then winced. They knew which suspect he had a way of contacting.

"I'm not sure what I'd prefer," Shanar joked sardonically. "The angel that almost wiped us out once, or the King of the Necromancers."

"Rathma was not a king." Zayl repeated with a sigh. "Although I may be able to find out more information on him. We kept many records of our founders, and while I have seen them before, going over them again might yield new information. Enough that I may be able to know him." Zayl did not look happy about the prospect.

"And if it is him, hopefully there'll be something in those records on how to get rid of a stubborn roach of a Nephalem who survived every apocalypse in Sanctuary's history." Shanar said with a strained smile. "No big deal."

"Wouldn't be the first time ol' Zayl's handled one of his own gone off the deep end." Humbart mused proudly. "I reckon this Rathma bloke can't be any worse than Karybdus."

Zayl just sighed.

"It's settled then." Lorath began furiously scribbling something down. "Tyrael will go to Heaven, to check on Malthael. The two of you-" Humbart made a loud ahem in his nonexistent throat, "-three, of you, will pay a visit to the Necropolis."

Shanar nodded briskly, Zayl looked pained, and Tyrael heaved a resigned sigh.

"It shall be done." The former angel stood, stretched his back with a pop, and made his way out of the room.

"...Imperius had better be nice to him." Shanar snipped.

"He will have Auriel on his side." Zayl stood as well, sounding certain, and sad. "Come. The Necropolis awaits."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess this is taking place around the same time of year as RoS. It's been at least one (1) full year. Possibly more idk  
> Also it's Humbart. He's the assistant.


	11. Back to Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma would rather be anywhere else in creation than right here. On a related note, next time he sees Itherael that guy is so decked.

The grasslands in which he walked had a disquiet about them. It had been years, lifetimes even, since the events that had so bloodied the land had occurred. Yet still, the imprint remained for Rathma to feel.

As he sometimes did, the Nephalem wondered if it was due to his nature as an upholder of the balance, his memories of what had happened, or some other factor that gave him such a feeling. Energies and auras had always been readily available for him to pick up on. Likely it had to do with his ability to see and feel sensations. If he could do it to a mortal or a ghost, or even an angel, then why not the land beneath him?

Few places felt as strongly as this, however.

Sanctuary as a whole was robust in conflicting energies, and had contained more magic than realms seven times its size and population. Over time, the Eastern Continent had grown to be the more saturated of Sanctuary's two continents. In part this was due to the many, many civilizations that had called it home; from the first angels and demons, to their Nephalem children, to the Mage Clans and the Children of Zakarum.

Perhaps that was part of why the balance was so out of sorts - half the planet was a proverbial powder-keg of raw energy.

Something had compelled him to seek answers here. It wasn't often that he didn't know where to look for information on something, and even less often that he felt drawn to places that held such...difficult memories for him. His thoughts kept returning to the grasslands though. It was wholly possible that there was an unseen, external force urging him towards his destination, and Rathma didn't exactly appreciate that.

On the whole, coming here felt like a really quite terrible idea. Yet, here he stood, peering warily over a land that had been soaked in the blood of man, angel and demon alike.

It would not due to dally. Whether it was some other being that wanted him here, or it was where he truly needed to be, Rathma had come here for a purpose. He needed answers. Hopefully, there would be answers.

Steeling himself, Rathma headed deeper into the prairie.

As he walked, the Nephalem pondered how a land that had been so contested could look, to the naked eye, so peaceful. Nothing but grasses for miles in each direction. The dirt in which they grew was just slightly too soft, one of the few bits of evidence for what had happened here.

He had not tread here in years. Lifetimes even. There had been no need. Well, no need greater than his fear of-

Something caught against his boot, and the Nephalem all but leapt away, dagger drawn and spell on his lips.

The memory of being strangled, struggling to free himself, hearing others around him cry out as they were similarly attacked rose sharp and ugly in his mind. The memory of all the sorrow and anguish from those who perished in that attack, and how they'd desperately come to him, seeking a way back.

But there was no attack, merely a chunk of pale marble embedded in the ground. It didn't exactly make him feel any better, for he knew its origins.

No, the only things here were himself, the grass, and...and it.

Stubbornly, Rathma squashed down the nervousness threatening to turn him back. He should've come here sooner really. It was a source of old pain and fear, and the realm of necromancy had no room for such things. Perhaps it was a good thing that he was here now. The old Nephalem dropped his stance, and continued on, heading deeper into the grasses.

It was fortunate he was taller than most. The plants had grown unchecked, and fueled by the magic saturating the ground, far higher than normal grasses might. This far in it was almost up to his ribs. Swimming in plants was not helping his nerves. He'd have to check for ticks after this.

The ground before him abruptly dropped away, as if a great chunk of it had been cut out. Rathma stopped just at the edge, and peered down into what lay at the heart of the grassland: the remains of the Cathedral of Light.

It was just barely visible in the depths, and Rathma suspected that a human wouldn't have been able to glimpse it at all. His eyes worked better in shadow, and the Cathedral was far, far down a great trench. Only the pale marble walls of the broken spire could really be seen.

It was enough to make him balk though.

Yes, he really should have come here before now. Before he needed to. It was rare that the Nephalem shied away from his duties, but he would have rather, in that moment, been anywhere else on the planet.

There were souls pressing at him now. Or just...a soul? He was really quite sure that it had to be multiple, with how strong the pull was growing, but there was a chance it was a particularly powerful soul that wanted him to come. It could've been one of his order he supposed - they would know better than most how to call him. Maybe they were the one that had planted the ideas to come here.

The feeling was...different though. If this was a student of the Balance, it was not one he knew.

He was dawdling.

Huffing a sigh, Rathma gave himself a mental slap-on-the-cheek, steeled his nerves, and prepared to jump. This was the only lead he had. Misgivings and bad blood aside, he couldn't afford not to investigate.

If it was the ghost of his father down there, unlikely and impossible as that was, Rathma was going to be really quite furious.

Gathering his magic about him, the Nephalem abruptly vanished from his perch overlooking the ruined Cathedral. Had he taken another moment to think and deliberate, he might have noticed the two figures that appeared several miles up in the sky. The two angelic figures.

As it was, too pre-occupied with entering the site of his father's fall to madness, Rathma did not see either angel as they alighted onto Sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end of my edited chapters. Gonna have to actually write the rest soon XP


	12. It's Dark, and We're Wearing Sunglasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cathedral Exploration Chapter!

"You are certain this is the right place?" Imperius took in the ruins sprawled out below him. It was nothing he hadn't seen before, though Sanctuary's weather and time had worked themselves over the place with a vigour.

Once-gleaming walls were now scuffed and dirty, the precise edges rounded and ruffed. The spire, once planted tip-first into the ground, had collapsed onto its side. Around it in a scattering were the massive, ancient bells it had once housed. The structure could've been worse for wear; it had been protected by whatever magics its creator had employed, and the canyon that made up its tomb.

"I can hear it. It's loudest there." Malthael fitfully gestured towards the ruins, and there was a clear desperation in his voice. Imperius found it impressive, in a quiet sort of way, that the other angel had functioned for as long as he had while dealing with this 'Sound'. He looked a wreck right now, so it must've been particularly bad.

That sort of thing must've worn on him.

The Archangel of Valor rumbled a soft (for him) noise, and took the other angel's hand before making his descent. They touched down in front of the ruins together, and began making their way inside the once-glorious Cathedral of Light.

It had not left a peaceful rubble, but reminded Imperius very much of their own Hall of the Passing. That there were ghosts wailing for Malthael here made perfect sense to him.

Long had the main steps to the entrance been cracked and dusted to bits, and both angels floated silently up through the crumbling archway to enter. Fortune was at least somewhat on their side, for despite falling down a chasm and being left for millennia, the roof was still held up. Perhaps not by the original walls, but more a mix of rubble and rock that propped it up.

The main foyer was just as dismal and disquieting as the rest of the place. Most of the ornate sculpting and glory had been destroyed when the building first fell, and had only worn further from there. Still, Imperius could see the odd evidence of Inarius's obsession with… well, everything. Himself. His world. His humans.

Another angel's obsessive madness was all too evident to Imperius. He didn't like looking at it. Or thinking about it. If he did for too long, it would remind him far too much of his own Halls of Valor.

Instead, he focussed himself on the task at hand.

Many passages had been entombed in rock, and collapsed. Imperius hoped whatever Malthael needed wasn't in any of those.

"Well?" He asked, peering around the dark space. "What do you...hear now?" The only light was from their wings, and Imperius fluffed up his own in protest at the darkness around them. Just because he didn't want to look at the place didn't mean he wanted to be blind, thank you very much.

Malthael wavered to and fro, like a candle in a breeze. He shook his head, shuddered his wings, and began to quickly float in a seemingly aimless direction. Grumbling, Imperius trotted to catch up.

Something crunched beneath him, and the Angel of Valor made a disgusted noise at the sight of human remains. Pilgrims and worshippers he supposed. They'd been shielded from the elements by the Cathedral, and petrified over the years. It struck him as...sad, that they were all forgotten here.

Imperius made a mental note to slap Inarius upside the head if he ever saw the bastard again.

Quickly, the angel decided he was better off taking to wing - stepping on bones was common in battle, but he didn't want to alert anything of their presence. He mentally kicked himself for the carelessness - and then kicked himself again when he realized Malthael had _wandered away_.

"Flighty-headed _bastard_." The angel snarled, gazing around at all the crevices and possible exits.

Malthael had gotten particularly hard to sense over the years, and only harder after his foray into Death. Much the same had happened with Tyrael. Were it _any other angel_ Imperius could've pinpointed exactly where he was and what his opinions on the weather were.

As it stood, he was left to guess-work here. Yelling was also a possibility, but Imperius had stubbornly decided that he was no longer making _any_ noise whatsoever. He had the distinct feeling they weren't alone here.

Knowing the other angel as well as he did, Imperius was rather confident he could figure out where Malthael had wandered off to.

With that in mind, Valor picked one not-so-collapsed looking stairwell, and made his way down. Naturally, Malthael had picked the stairs beside them that went _up_.

* * *

Deep in the wreckage of the Cathedral of Light was the place where Sanctuary had been sealed together. A place where Inarius had stood thousands of times, had been adored and worshipped. Where once there had been grass but now sat a cracked and crumbling dais. Where the Lord of Hatred had left a blood-mark swearing to an oath - an oath he'd completely broken nonetheless.

Stepping upon the dais shouldn't have been unlike standing anywhere else in the world. And yet, knowing what he knew of the place, Rathma found the experience highly distasteful.

He'd thrown down the gauntlet already though. He was here, and he had work to do. Mentally burying his misgivings, the Nephalem knelt down and placed a hand on the center of the dais. The energies here were...old. As they should have been.

A breath hissed out between his teeth at this discovery. Rathma had been quite sure that there was _something_ here. Something off, a clue to what was wrong with the Balance perhaps, he could swear that something had been _calling him here-_

The barest whisper of a breeze trickled against his hair, and he froze. Around him he could feel his cloak puffing up in agitation. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, and turned to face the being behind him.

Malthael regarded him wearily, and Rathma dully thought he looked almost...confused. Unsettled maybe.

They stood, one of them inhumanely still, the other with wings flickering and twitching in uncharacteristic aggravation. Opposites in every sense of the word.

"...I believe I made you a promise," Rathma's usually bland-expression was gone. "That if you ever meddled in my affairs again, I'd be removing every limb from your body." He was already disquieted just from _being_ here, his nerves were shot, and he did _not_ want company. Especially from nosey murder-angels.

The face he made now was something that Malthael decided was really quite… dangerous. The Nephalem gestured sharply with both hands, and the air around him crackled. A gleaming war-scythe flashed into existence, and Malthael felt abruptly very frustrated and tired.

"You _cannot_ be serious."

"Oh, I'm _deadly_ serious." Though it was said straight-faced, and though he was raising his weapon as he said it, Malthael was quite certain the Nephalem had made a pun. Indignation filled him.

"I've caught you meddling once more. Prepare for dismemberment."

Malthael had a few seconds to wonder at the absurdity of the situation, before Rathma was streaking towards him in a flash of unholy power and the desire to kill. He had his shotels out with barely a thought, and whirled to meet the Nephalem.

If it was Death he wanted, then it was Death he would get.

Their weapons flashed as they struck one-another, sending a song of blades echoing through the ruins. Rathma was quick, and it really seemed a stretch to call him a man when he moved with inhuman speed and agility. Malthael was faster, but only just so. There were advantages to being made of nothing but light, sound and metal, and one of them was the lack of a need for air.

Battle was made tricky, however, by the odd and sudden certainty that he did not wish to harm Rathma.

Malthael paused a moment, analyzing this feeling. The Nephalem was an irritable beast, but… attacking him would do no good. More _harm_ than good really.

The Sound rang in his head, loud as ever.

If anyone were to know why the Sound kept calling him, it would probably be the irate creature before him, striving to cleave him in two. This alone was reason enough to try not to kill him.

But how to get his cooperation?

For perhaps the first time in his very long life, Malthael did something different; he tried to diffuse the battle.

"I do not wish to fight." He parried away a particularly vicious thrust of a gleaming-dagger.

"And yet you stand here upon Sanctuary." Rathma uttered back, preparing to swing his scythe once more.

"I need…" Malthael hesitated, unsure of the words. The Sound was so loud now... In that hesitation, his opponent _vanished_. Alarm flashed through the angel, and he stared about in an attempt to relocate the Nephalem.

"I care not what you think you need." The words were whispered next to where his ear would be were he made of flesh. The angel did not think, but threw himself forward in a flash of wings and power. Bone-spikes erupted where he'd stood moments before.

Spinning about, Malthael readied himself for battle once more, but Rathma was already gone.

"I require your aid!" Well, probably. "Our goals align!" ...Maybe?

"Apologies if I wholly doubt the truth of that." _Damnit_. Stubborn bastard.

There was an immense _Clang!_ At which Malthael jerked himself forward and away from the sound. Whirling about, he found none other than Imperius planting himself firmly between him and Rathma. Solarion and the Scythe were locked together, the Necromancer's blade fitting neatly into the gap at the spear's end.

"You try my patience Malthael. And you, Nephalem, tempt my blade." Imperius growled. Malthael's gaze darted from angel to Nephalem, as he searched for the words. The Sound was louder now than it had been, full of excitement and emotion. He swallowed a whimper.

"Oh for-" Rathma drew himself out of the blade-lock, and fixed both seraphim with a wholly unimpressed look. "The both of you? Really?"

Imperius bristled indignantly, wings standing on end. Malthael winced.

"You would be wise to watch your tone, _Nephalem!_ " Imperius snarled, and punctuated his words by slamming the butt of Solarion into the ground.

"You would be wise to never alight upon Sanctuary, _Angel_." Rathma retorted coolly. His cloak had puffed itself up in response to Imperius's volume.

Malthael could see the situation rapidly spinning out of control. Any moment now and they would be trying to kill each other, and that _would not do_. He needed Rathma alive. He wanted Imperius's support. The Sound was so. Bloody. _Loud_.

Both Rathma and Imperius looked like they very much wanted to fight.

"Both of you _cease_." Malthael hissed in a tone that brokered no argument. It was his 'Head of the Council' voice, and had stopped many of Imperius and Tyrael's most vicious rows cold in their tracks. Mercifully, it worked here too. Imperius stood down, wings folding sulkily. Rathma looked confused and unrepentant, but he too allowed himself to relax a fraction.

The situation felt so very similar to the many fights in the Council Chambers, that Malthael found himself momentarily distracted. Perhaps this was something to consider later - Rathma _was_ of direct relation to the former Archangel of Justice after all. Food for thought, when said relation wasn't glaring holes into his non-existent skull.

"Imperius, stand down. I need him alive. As for _you_ -" He pointed with one shotel, and Rathma gave him a hostile look. "I need your help."

He hadn't noticed before, but the Nephalem had red eyes. They squinted suspiciously at him, weighing his words and the merit of listening.

"Speak then." Rathma huffed. "Do not waste my time any more than you already have."

Malthael's headache abruptly got worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this intending it to be a Rathma centric fic but Malthael keeps holding the muse hostage so his chapters are longer.


End file.
